


Paralyzed

by brittyelaine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Episode Related, Grieving Dean, Grieving Dean Winchester, M/M, Post-Episode: s13e03 Patience, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 09:37:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12554548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittyelaine/pseuds/brittyelaine
Summary: His hand is aching from its head-on collision with the wall, but he does nothing about it.  It’s something.  It’s a feeling.  Aside from blinding anger, all he’s been able to feel is pain.  He’s lost so much in his life — everything, really.  He’s tired.  He’s just so fucking tired.  He’s tired of this life, of losing people he loves, of existing.  He’s exhausted.The laws of the universe are simple, it seems — one, you never take a joint from a guy named Don,  two, no dogs in the car, and three, the Winchesters never win. For as long as he lives on this miserable earth, Dean will never have what he wants. He will never have the comfort of a loving relationship. Happiness is not, has not, and never will be in life’s syllabus for Dean Winchester.





	Paralyzed

**Author's Note:**

> From the Tumblr prompt: Send me a song, and I'll write you a drabble! [["Paralyzed by NF"]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHb_Q0a6bsM)
> 
> Come hang out with me on [Tumblr!](http://brittywritesstuff.tumblr.com)

The weight of Dean’s words falls between them like an anchor, and Dean feels himself shaking. Sam opens his mouth to say something, and it’s all Dean can do not to haul off and punch him. “Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking dare, Sam.” He takes a step back, needing to physically distance himself from his brother. He sniffs and wipes at his eyes with a harsh hand.

“Dean--”

“I said don’t.” He turns on his heel and storms the corridor on the way to his room. He nearly knocks Jack over, and in his rage, throws him against the wall. “You stay the hell out of my way. And mind your own fucking business!” He punches the wall beside Jack’s head and shoves off. He stops a few steps away and turns back, glaring daggers. “No. Y’know what? I hope you heard every word. I hope you know what you did, you little shit -- what you stole from from me.”

“Dean! Back off.” Sam’s in the archway, and Dean clenches his jaw and huffs, storming away from them before he gives in to his desire to stab them both.

The walls shake with the force of his door slamming, and the belongings living on his desk scatter and fall to the floor when his duffel hits it. Not satisfied with the destruction, he picks up the wooden chair and smashes it against the wall, kicking aside the shards as he heads for the bed, dragging a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam from the bottom drawer of his nightstand. As the anger subsides, the numbness sets in. The same numbness he’s felt in the days since he watched Cas’s body go up in smoke. 

His hand is aching from its head-on collision with the wall, but he does nothing about it. It’s something. It’s a feeling. Aside from blinding anger, all he’s been able to feel is pain. He’s lost so much in his life — everything, really. He’s tired. He’s just so fucking tired. He’s tired of this life, of losing people he loves, of existing. He’s exhausted.

The laws of the universe are simple, it seems — one, you never take a joint from a guy named Don, two, no dogs in the car, and three, the Winchesters never win. For as long as he lives on this miserable earth, Dean will never have what he wants. He will never have the comfort of a loving relationship. Happiness is not, has not, and never will be in life’s syllabus for Dean Winchester. 

_**When did I become so numb?  
When did I lose myself?** _

He knocks back a swig of the bourbon and barely winces at the burn. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he reaches for the drawer and pulls a folded photo from under the .45 he keeps as a back-up. 

__**Where is the real me?  
** I’m lost and it kills me inside  
I’m paralyzed 

It’s not an old photo, but it’s tattered and wrinkled from wear. He unfolds it and exhales slowly. The memory is a vivid one, one of the few good ones Dean's had in — hell, forever, maybe. Sam took the photo, but Dean knows he has no idea how much it means. It was a simple moment that Dean’s held onto. In all the chaos and tragedy, it’s the one happy moment he could go back to. 

In the photo, Cas is looking at Sam behind the camera, mid-word. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips — he was talking about the collection of honey — and Dean’s looking at him in profile, a bright, happy smile on his face as he reaches out to drape an arm around Cas’s shoulders. There’s a beer in his other hand, half-drunk. Dean couldn’t have cared less about honey or bees, but he was just so happy to have Cas in his kitchen, sitting beside him on a quiet night, drinking beer and telling stories. It had been a tiny glimpse at the normal Dean would never have. 

Now, staring at the photo, Dean feels numb. The painful kind of numb like when your foot falls asleep, or running your fingers under hot water after you’ve been in the snow. 

His door flings open without a knock, and the picture crumples in Dean’s fist. He can feel Sam looming in the doorway. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean says as he stands, the bottle of bourbon dangling loosely from his injured hand. “You didn’t have enough? Come back for round two?”

Sam crosses his arms and huffs. “I want you to talk to me, Dean. Make me understand.”

“What is there to understand?” He’s shouting again, and his voice is rough. “Everyone who means a goddamn thing to me is gone!”

Sam scoffs. “Thanks.”

That pisses Dean off even more. “Fuck you, Sam. Fuck you and your superiority complex. You think if you can save him and turn him good, you can make up for all the shit you’ve done. You think it’ll make up for Mom and Cas. But it won’t! Nothing will. Because he’s gone. He’s dead!”

“Dean… I get it. I lost a friend, too, but—“

“He wasn’t my friend!”

_**All the words that leave my tongue  
Feel like they came from someone else** _

Sam’s brow draws together, and he studies Dean. Dean doesn’t say a word. He just lets it happen. He watches Sam’s eyes drift downward to the photo, the smashed furniture, and finally upward to the tears staining Dean’s cheeks. He watches as realization washes over Sam. His brother exhales slowly and nods. “You loved him.”

Dean sinks to the bed, letting the bourbon clatter to the floor. The amber liquid sloshes out of the bottle, forming a pool beneath it where it stops. Still clutching the photo, he drops his head to his hands. “Not past tense, Sammy.”

The bed dips beneath Sam’s weight, but he doesn’t say anything. 

__**When did I become ashamed?  
** __**Where's the person that I know?  
** They must have left  
They must have left  
With all my faith 

“For years, I kept telling myself it’s not the right time. I kept telling myself I’d man up tomorrow or next week or next month. I was ashamed. Of what I felt. Of being a coward.”

He draws a shaky breath and licks his lips as he unfolds the photo. He stares at it, tears filling his eyes. “I don’t know who I am anymore. That night I watched his body burn, a part of me burned with him. And I’ve prayed. I’ve screamed and prayed until my voice gave out. No one is listening. No one can help me.”

Dean swallows hard and turns to Sam, hopelessness etched into the tired lines of his face. “Cas is dead, Sam. And my faith, my belief, my will, my—“ he clears his throat, “my everything… it died with him. Without him, I can’t-- I just… I feel paralyzed."


End file.
